


Dumbass: A Terrible Office Au

by zade



Series: That One Boss/Assistant AU [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Murphy is a terrible assitant, Oral Sex, Past Murder, fake office talk, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:14:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3254414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zade/pseuds/zade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m going to fire you.”  It slipped out of his mouth before he could stop himself, but honestly even saying the words felt extremely satisfying</p><p>“No, you’re not,” Murphy replied, and examined his nails with a practiced casualness that made Bellamy hate the pretentious prick even more.  “I’m still way better than your last assistant.”</p><p>Which was only true technically.  Finn had been a wonderful assistant, up until he had barricaded himself with the ground floor employees (who Murphy insisted on calling grounders) and threatened them all with a pair of scissors and a stapler.</p><p> </p><p>Written for a prompt on tumblr</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Bellamy is Suprised

**Author's Note:**

> written for the prompt: can you write a Murphamy boss/assistant with Murphy as the awesome assistant, please?
> 
> I am so so sorry

Bellamy breathed out slowly and tried to get his blood pressure under control, because his doctor had told him that at this rate the stress was going to kill him. “MURPHY!”

“Yes, your highness?” his terrible assistant called from the desk just outside his office, not even bothering to turn his head towards Bellamy.

Bellamy counted to ten in his head then, still furious, counted to ten again. “I need to speak with you.”

Murphy sauntered in, smoothing his slicked back hair with one hand. He was wearing a button down with the sleeves rolled up and the collar opened just a little too low and a tie that hung too loosely from his collar, Bellamy wanted to berate him about the barely dress-code appropriate state of his clothes, but then he supposed he would have to own up to the amount of time he had spent staring at him, which wasn’t worth it.

Bellamy held up a stack of paper, which had been neatly binder-clipped together and left on his desk. “What is this?”

Murphy smirked and slid his hands casually into his pockets, looking attractive and aloof and like an asshole. “That would be the papers you wanted me to photocopy.”

Bellamy nodded. “Yeah, I gathered. And why is labeled ‘for dumbass’?”

Murphy could barely contain his laughter and the urge to fire him was almost overpowering. “So no one else would pick up the files and think they were for them.”

“I’m going to fire you.” It slipped out of his mouth before he could stop himself, but honestly even saying the words felt extremely satisfying

“No, you’re not,” Murphy replied, and examined his nails with a practiced casualness that made Bellamy hate the pretentious prick even more. “I’m still way better than your last assistant.”

Which was only true technically. Finn had been a wonderful assistant, up until he had barricaded himself with the ground floor employees (who Murphy insisted on calling grounders) and threatened them all with a pair of scissors and a stapler. 

Bellamy sighed and threw the papers back onto his desk. Octavia, who was the entire Human Resources department, had told him to pick his battles. Unfortunately she seemed to think firing Murphy wasn’t a real battle. “Are there any messages or anything?”

“Clarke called. She’s still on hold. I figure if it’s actually important, she walk from one end of the office to the other. And Octavia wants to let you know she can’t do lunch tomorrow, because she’s giving the new ex-grounder turned mail-boy a tour, which I’m pretty sure is just a tour of places they can make out without getting caught.”

Bellamy listened intently and tried to decide what part of that he should deal with first. “Can you let Octavia know that’s fine, can you please not call them grounders, and transfer Clarke to me, please. And get me a coffee.”

Murphy rolled his eyes, but sauntered back out of Bellamy’s office, presumably to do his work. “Aye aye, captain,” he called over his shoulder.

Clarke was bursting into his office before Murphy had a chance to transfer her call, which was fine, because Murphy’s theory wasn’t wrong. It was a thirty second walk between their offices.

“Did you see the email?” she demanded, planting herself in front of his desk, and glaring when Murphy came whistling in with a cup of coffee for him. 

Bellamy took another deep breath and began scrolling through his email for whatever message Clarke was talking about even though he knew she was about to tell him anyway.

He reached out blindly for the coffee and was not at all surprised when Murphy put the scaling side of cup into his hand, instead of the handle. He put it down quickly, glaring at Murphy’s retreat, which turned out mostly to be Murphy’s ass.

“They moved up our presentation to the board.”

Bellamy paled. “What? That wasn’t supposed to be for another week.” Bellamy had been very carefully not planning for the board presentation because that was what next week was for.

Clarke nodded tightly and threw herself into one of the chairs in front of his desk. “It’s not the whole board, just Kane, Jaha and my mom. But there’s some new issue with the new CEO of TK, and she wants to meet on Monday instead of Friday so we need to have this merger planned out for them tomorrow.”

Bellamy closed his eyes and counted to ten. He opened his eyes again, hoping that Clarke would disappear and this would all turn out to be a stress dream brought on by having to deal with Murphy. She was still there. Damn. “What happened to Anya?”

“They fired her.” Clark blushed, looking down at her hands, which were pulling at the hem of her blazer. “The new CEO is named Lexa. I met her in the elevator. Turns out her parent company also owns the building.”

Bellamy nodded absently. They would need to get all the personnel details together, figure out the money issues, make some sort of passible presentation, look over the notes they had gotten from TK, Inc. and somehow try to make it all look like it hadn’t been done in a day.

“We’re going to be here all night,” he said, looking dazedly up at his clock. It was ten to five. Clarke sighed and whipped out her phone. “Murphy!” he called, and surprisingly, Murphy came quickly.

“Yes, Mr. Blake?” 

Polite, too. Apparently he was going to have to keep Clarke around more often. “Tell Octavia and Monty we need to pull an all nighter? Raven can leave, but tell her to forward the projected budget and ask Jasper to come in early.”

“No problem, boss,” Murphy said and saluted once out of Clarke’s eye-line, which was still remarkably better than he normally behaved.

Clarke sighed and stood up. “Okay, conference room in twenty? I’ll order us dinner.”

Bellamy nodded, rubbing his eyes. He was exhausted; tonight was going to be terrible. He gathered his files, his laptop and the cup of lukewarm coffee and headed to the conference room.

Clarke wasn’t there, but Monty and Octavia had already started spreading everything out on the table.

Murphy showed up a second later. He grabbed the coffee cup out of Bellamy’s hand with no preamble, and thrust a hot one at him, handle first.

Bellamy tried not to sigh at the first sip, but if nothing else, Murphy made excellent coffee. “Thanks, Murphy, you can leave if you want.”

Murphy threw himself into an empty chair away from everyone else. “Nahh, I’ll stick around. I remember what happened last time someone let you and Clarke use powerpoint unaccompanied.”

“Everyone likes the sound effects,” Bellamy argued, even though Murphy hadn’t really raised it this time.

“Nobody likes the sound effects. Back me up, Green,” he said, propping his feet up on the table.

Monty froze, but Octavia rolled her eyes and nudged Monty to get him focused again. “Don’t you have small children to terrorize or something?”  
Murphy laughed. “You tell me, HR. Is it in my job description?”

Bellamy sighed. It was going to be a very, very long night.

He was not wrong.

Around midnight, Octavia and Monty had found a major financial error they had to fix, Clarke had decided to take a power nap and none of them could find her, and Murphy had disappeared as well, although this was less of an issue because he had yet to be at all helpful. Besides making and delivering them coffee.

Bellamy looked down at his coffee cup. He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. His suit jacket and tie had been discarded already, but he still felt overdressed for verging on two in the morning.

He prepared himself to call out to Murphy, when his wayward assistant appeared behind him followed by a very sheepish looking Clarke. 

“I got distracted by some of the policies in the handbook. I was giving it a glance and I guess I got distracted. Murphy came to get me.” Clarke said as she sat down next to Monty.

Murphy was pouring coffee in his cup before he had even mentioned it and for a moment Bellamy remembered perfectly why he had hired Murphy.

“Figured I should caffeinate you before the 2:30 slump, boss-man.”

Bellamy snorted, but took a grateful sip. Murphy’s true calling had clearly been a barista. “Can get a power point outline going? We’re trying to figure out some numbers.”

Murphy nodded and slumped out of the room, looking just as tired as Bellamy felt.

Twenty minutes later, Bellamy’s laptop dinged. An email, from Murphy, whose subject was “DO NOT ADD SOUND EFFECTS.” Bellamy opened the power point and was reluctantly impressed. Murphy had filled the pages with most relevant information and put blank slides places he knew Bellamy was still working on answers. And, just at the beginning, there was one sound effect. Bellamy laughed when he saw it, but didn’t look up, because that would mean explaining to his sister and his partner what was so funny.

It was close to five when they as a group declared the presentation as done as it was going to get. Monty had left around three, and Octavia had alternated between being helpful and snoring at the conference table. Bellamy hadn’t seen Murphy in hours, but Bellamy was relatively confident that his assistance could find his way to his house.

He went to the office to deposit his laptop and pick up his keys, so that he could run home, sleep for an hour, and then take a shower and fake his way through the presentation. But there, lying on his couch, was Murphy, head resting on one curled arm, clearly asleep.

Bellamy stopped in the doorway, unsure of what to do. Murphy’s hair was in his face, hanging down like Bellamy had never seen it before. His first urge, which he barely curbed, was to cover Murphy in his jacket and just leave him there. His second urge was to reach out and touch Murphy’s hair, but that would be even less appropriate.

He was saved from his mind’s complete inability to think rationally at 5am by Murphy stirring.

“Oh, shit. Sorry. Didn’t mean to fall asleep.” Murphy stretched like a cat, eyes still closed, and he looked young and beautiful and Bellamy had clearly had too much coffee and not enough sleep.

“No it’s okay,” Bellamy replied, and told himself his voice was hoarse from exhaustion. “I was going to go to my house a for a few, change, maybe. Do you need a ride somewhere?”

Murphy was still waking up, one hand massaging the back of his neck while the other cradled his opposite hip. “Nah, it’s okay. I’ll take the bus.”

“At 5? I’ll drive you.” Which had nothing to do with how his assistant looked sprawled out on his couch and had everything to do with sorts of people that hovered around bus stations at five in the morning (and whether they could also see how Murphy would look strung out and moaning on their couch). 

Murphy nodded slowly. “Okay, yeah. Thanks, Bellamy.” Which may also have been the first time Murphy used his first name.

Smiling far too large for as early in the morning as it was, Bellamy led Murphy to his car and let himself be directed to Murphy’s. 

“Wanna come up?” Murphy asked when they got there. “I need like ten minutes to shower and change and then we can head to yours.”

It was exactly the kind of rundown apartment building that Bellamy had imagined the sort of sketchy people who hung around bus stops would live in. “I don’t pay you enough,” he said as he followed Murphy through the door and up the stairs. 

“This was my first apartment. Me and my friend Mbege got it together.” They were still climbing stairs, and Bellamy was beginning to regret the amount of time he spent behind a desk. “He joined the army. Died. In combat. So I decided I would keep this place in his memory.”

“I’m sorry,” Bellamy said, feeling sick to his stomach. Or maybe he was just hungry.

Murphy shrugged and unlocked the door. “Welcome to my humble abode. Make yourself comfortable; I’ll be as quick as I can.”

Bellamy sat himself on the couch, uncomfortable, but not wanting to pry. Inside the crappy exterior, Murphy’s apartment was actually pretty nice. The couch was slightly worn, but comfortable. He had clothes and newspapers lying everywhere, which Bellamy realized almost immediately was lazy, pretentious mess, because despite the clutter, everything was clean.

He heard the shower turn on, and then Murphy singing softly and Bellamy snorted. The couch was comfortable enough that Bellamy had to focus on not falling asleep. He was so tired. Today was going to be a nightmare. A daymare? What was the expression, a waking nightmare? An awake nightmare?

The shower turned off. Bellamy looked up instinctively, and was greeted with the sight of John Murphy in nothing but a towel, slung low about his hips, with his hair falling wet in his face. Bellamy swallowed hard and barely resisted the urge to pinch himself.

His skin practically glistened, light shining over him from the window in his bedroom. He looked like an advertisement, or like an angel, the sunrise spreading out behind him, ethereal. Bellamy’s mouth was quickly drying.

Murphy looked over his shoulder at Bellamy. “Can you check and make sure I locked the door?” He turned away again and dropped the towel.

Bellamy was clearly dreaming, or was stuck inside a very bad porno. He turned around quickly, checked the door, which was locked, and tried to get the image of Murphy’s ass out of his mind’s eye. 

“Well?” Murphy called, and Bellamy turned around slowly. “You think I invite any strange man I see up to my apartment?”

He had put on boxers, but that was it. Bellamy swallowed hard. “I am a strange man?”

“No.” Murphy ran his fingers through his wet hair, and Bellamy was beginning to get too much of an erection for this to be a joke. “Are you gonna kiss me, or are you gonna just stand there gaping?”

Bellamy stepped forward embarrassingly quickly and Murphy laughed, that stupid sneering laugh that Bellamy hated. “Shut up, Murphy,” he said, and then kissed him.

Bellamy realized belatedly that he probably had awful coffee breath, and he was barely standing by his own willpower, but Murphy wrapped a hand around his waist, still slightly damp, and Bellamy leaned into him and moaned.

“I put in a sound effect for you.”

“I saw. Let me take you out,” he said desperately between kisses.

Murphy laughed and bared his neck for Bellamy’s teeth. “You have the board thing tonight, and that fundraiser tomorrow.”

“Fuck,” Bellamy complained, and sucked a mark onto Murphy’s neck. “Saturday, Murphy. I’m taking you out Saturday.”

Murphy smiled again and leaned in for another kiss. “You should go.”

Bellamy pulled back confused, just in time to see Murphy roll his eyes. 

“You have to go get dressed for the presentation.”

Bellamy swore, backing up, and trying to remember what he had done with his keys. “Shit, I, fuck. I forgot. I need to go.”

Murphy scoffed. “Yeah, dumbass. You need to go.” Bellamy turned around, made it to the door before Murphy started talking again. “And Bellamy?” Bellamy turned his head and saw Murphy smiling, gently. “It’s John.”

Bellamy smiled wider, and headed out the door and down the stairs. He had apparently been wrong. Today was going to be a fucking awesome day.


	2. In Which Bellamy Gets Everything He Wanted (In Exactly the Wrong Order)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to Dumbass: A Terrible Office Au
> 
> if you liked where that ended, excellent. If not, here is where everything goes wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta'd as always by the incomparable [hateboners](www.hateboners.tumblr.com)
> 
> warnings: reference to past murder, a bit of angst
> 
> NOW ACTUALLY IN PAST TENSE

Bellamy waltzed into work beaming. He was happy. He had three cups of Starbucks coffee beverages in his stomach, a half hour of sleep to his name, and a date with Murphy—with John, in two days. He started whistling, and he could tell from the look on the grounders’—er, the ground floor employees’—faces, that he looked batshit.

He waved at them as he stepped into the elevator, which he held for Clarke, when he saw her stumble in, with bags under her eyes bigger than the briefcase she was hauling.

“How are you so fucking chipper?” she asked him, and he handed her a grande mocha with soymilk and whipped cream because he was an excellent partner. She moaned inappropriately into the beverage, but he didn’t say anything.

“Today is going to be good. I can feel it.”

Clarke looked at him like she thought he’d lost it but nodded supportively anyway.

Bellamy supposed people weren’t used to seeing him happy, because he wasn’t happy. He had a great job and a giant pain in the ass of a sister, and most days he went home to a beer and a flatscreen and he usually lived his life passively, like he was on a bus and one day he would recognize his stop, get off the bus, and start to navigate on his own.

He thought John Murphy might be that stop.

When they reached their floor, number forty-six, Bellamy gestured for Clarke to get off first, and she looked at him like he had very suddenly grown an extra head.

“Tone down all the ‘I’m-so-happy-I-am-clearly-taking-drugs’ for the meeting, okay? I’m glad you’re feeling good, but it’s disconcerting as fuck.” She rolled her eyes. “Just tell me and get it over with.”

He looked around, paranoid, but nearly bouncing. “I have a date. I am going on a date. With a person. I am taking a person on a date.”

Clarke smiled, excited and little condescending, which was her usual mix. “That’s great, Bellamy! Congrats! Now put on your work hat and pretend that we have a big important presentation to the board today because we do.” She slapped him on the shoulder, a little more forcefully than she needed to, and headed to her office. He knew he should go to his now. He should.

He glanced at his office and saw John already sitting at his desk, dressed in a tight white shirt, a loose vest and tie, and pants that looked like they were painted onto him. 

Bellamy’s pants got a little tighter than he could handle at work, and he decided to go talk to his sister, because she was an amazing buzzkill and also he technically should tell her he was taking out his subordinate on a date.

He beelined for her office, and was happy to see her sitting there, albeit looking exhausted. He should have brought her a coffee too. He knocked, and didn’t wait for her to answer before he burst in.

“Octavia!” he said brightly, setting himself down in one of her stiff-backed chairs. She had explained to him once that it was to keep people from sitting in her office too long, but he thought it was really because Octavia secretly liked uncomfortable chairs.

“Bellamy,” she replied dryly. She looked just as tired as Clarke did. He supposed that he looked tired, too. But he didn’t feel it. He could fly.

Right after he took care of his little problem.

“Can I help you?” she said after a moment, sighing, and Bellamy felt bad, because she looked too tired to be at work. 

“I have a date,” he said. Octavia perked up, because she had literally been nagging him to find someone for years. “With Murphy.”

Octavia’s face fell. “Oh, Bell, hon. You can’t.”

Bellamy rolled his eyes. “O, I would not be the first person to ever have a relationship with their assistant.”

Octavia shook her head, face hardening. He knew that face, he had grown up with it, and he knew how hard it was to change her mind once she made that expression. “It’s not that. It’s him. You can’t—” she glanced around, looking outside her office for something, Bellamy wasn’t sure what. 

She went digging through the filing cabinet under her desk. “Listen,” she said. “I could lose my job for this, but you’re my brother and I love you, so.”

She thrust a file towards him, and they both watched it settle onto the desk in front of him. She stood up, stretching. “I’m going to go get some coffee and leave you alone with a file on my desk. If you happen to read the file while I’m gone, well. I’ll never know.” She walked out the door, shutting it loudly behind her.

Bellamy eyed it for a moment, only a little worried it might spring up and bite him. Maybe that third cup of coffee was a mistake, in retrospect. 

The file, unsurprisingly, belonged to John Murphy. He picked it up, thumbed past the W-2’s and I-9’s until he reached the background check that they ran on all of their employees.

It took him about fifteen minutes to read the 5 page document, which his sister had helpfully highlighted, because he had to pause every couple of paragraphs to try and get his feelings of anxious excitement and slowly growing dread to reconcile themselves.

He was pretty sure he’d only taken in every third sentence, but even so.

When he finished, he sunk back into the uncomfortable chair and hung his head. This seemed much more like his regular life. He was not sure why he let himself believe something good might happen to him.

He was Bellamy Blake. Good things happened exclusively to people without that name.

He returned the file to Octavia’s filing cabinet, and tried to feel grateful that she had showed him. He didn’t. He felt angry at her, and at himself, and at John, and so overwhelmed that he was honestly not sure he was going to make it to the presentation that night without an anxiety attack.

He headed back to his office, but paused just out of view, when he heard Clarke’s voice, giddy and clearly caffeinated, coming from around the area of his assistant’s desk.

“Really?” she said. “I mean, I knew it would work because I am awesome at planning things, but I didn’t think it would work that well!”

“It did,” John said, and Bellamy could actually hear the smile on his face, which gave him immediate heartburn. “I wasn’t sure it would, especially after your stellar excuse. Everyone knows you’re boring, but I don’t think anyone believed you when walked in and kept saying ‘I was reading the handbook!’ over and over.”

Oh. Well, that explained a little. He couldn’t say he blamed her for trying to help him get a date, but he was a little irritated that she hadn’t talked to him. He wondered if she’d read John’s file, too.

Clarke laughed, and Bellamy rounded the corner in time to see her slap his shoulder good-naturedly. She was sitting cross legged on his desk, and John was smiling at him so brightly Bellamy wished he was wearing sunglasses.

This close, he could see that John didn’t gel his hair today, and it was hanging around his face like it had been the night before, and after his shower, and Bellamy was sure that was for him, and thought he might throw up.

“Did you see that?” John asked, still smiling. “Office abuse!”

Bellamy tried to smile, but based on the way Clarke looked at him, suddenly concerned, he didn’t quite manage it. “I saw nothing,” he replied and winked at Clarke. 

John rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling. 

Bellamy could feel the coffee beginning to rebel in his stomach, and for a minute he was sure he was going to be sick.

“Are you okay?” It was the most genuine concern he had ever seen on John’s face, which didn’t help his stomach settle at all.

Clarke slid off the desk. “I’ll leave,” she suggested, and then did.

“I’m sorry, uh, John,” Bellamy said, regretting that this was the first time he had used John’s first name, because he saw the way John perked up at that, and it made this so much harder. “I need to cancel Saturday. Something’s come up.”

John raised an incredulous eyebrow at him. “I manage your schedule. Nothing has come up.”

“It’s personal.”

John laughed. “Personal? On a Saturday night?” He smiled. “Look, if you need a little bit of time, just say so. I’ve been waiting for months, I can wait a little more. Dumbass.”

Bellamy’s throat was dry and burning and his chest ached, probably from emotions but also possibly heartburn because that was, he realized for sure now, too much coffee.

He should have explained to John, gotten his side of the story. He knew he should have. He liked John, he really did. For all of the annoyance that he brought in the day-to-day, he was a good assistant, he was smart, and funny, and had high expectations for Bellamy. He deserved something more than a half baked excuse.

“I’m sorry, no,” was what Bellamy said instead, and rushed off to Clarke’s office, leaving John—Murphy, wide eyed and confused.

He burst past her assistant, Wells—who was the chair’s son and Clarke’s childhood friend and who hated Bellamy with a passion—and into Clarke’s office, where she was clearly trying to use makeup and sheer will power to erase the bags from under her eyes.

He slammed the door behind him, furious now, because he couldn’t get the look that he put on John’s, no, Murphy’s face out of his head. “Did you know?”

She looked up as the door shut, and glared at Bellamy. “I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

“Did you know?!” he yelled, slamming his hands onto her desk, and leaning over her.

“Did I know what?” she spat, standing so they were eye to eye. “That you can be a tremendous prick? Or that you have no manners to speak of? Or that—”

“About John.”

Clarke huffed in exasperation. “That he likes you? Yes. And it was clear that you liked him, too, so I decided to help out, because I thought maybe getting you laid would turn you back into the easy-going asshole you were in college instead of the workaholic hardass you’ve become!”

Bellamy deflated, all the fight gone out of him, and he shook his head, sinking into one of the chairs in front of her desk. “No, I meant. Did you know about the…the thing. The thing he did.” He paused. “Also, sorry. For, you know, that.”

Clarke sat back down, eyeing him cautiously. “No?”

Bellamy sighed. “Octavia gave me his file when I told her that—when I told her.”

“That’s not okay, Bellamy. If he found out he could sue.” Clarke shook her head. “And I don’t want to know. Whatever it is, it wasn’t so bad we wouldn’t hire him, so I it can’t be that bad. And you shouldn’t let his past stop you from getting to know him better.” He opened his mouth but she interrupted him. “And I still don’t want to know.”

She had a point, he knew she did, but he was exhausted and emotionally drained, and he just wanted to go back in time to when Finn was his assistant and he was at peace with being a bachelor for the rest of his probably short life.

Everything was simpler, then. Well, everything was shitty then, but the universe was doing it’s damnedest to make now shitty, too, just shitty and more complicated.

“I understand what you’re saying, I just can’t.” She shook her head, but he didn’t let her interrupt. “You are almost certainly right, and I am definitely too tired to be making life-altering decisions. But, I can’t sit on this. I can’t.”

He got up and walked out of her office, past Wells without making eye contact, and straight into his office, without acknowledging John, who tracked his movement with his eyes, like some sort of hipster bird of prey.

Bellamy closed his door behind him and very determinedly did not look at his couch, which only brought to mind the image of John sleeping there only hours before. Since then, he had finally touched John’s hair, made a decision that made him giddy with happiness, and sunk into a blackhole of sadness. It was a lot for less than six hours.

He collapsed into the chair behind his desk and tried to think work related thoughts.

John knocked a minute later, and came in without waiting for a response. He handed Bellamy a coffee and packet of chewable pepto, which was insightful and considerate, and the exact opposite of what he wanted from John right now.

“Robert from that law thing called to confirm your lunch meeting for tomorrow, Raven called in sick, so anything you needed from her for the presentation you’ll have to get from Jasper, and Wells Jaha called over to tell me you’re an asshole, which I couldn’t exactly disagree with.” John crossed his arms over his chest, sneering and hurt. “Tell me what the fuck’s going on.”

“I read your file,” Bellamy said after a moment and John nodded.

“Okay. Had you not before?”

“No. And I was…surprised by your background check.” 

John scoffed, uncrossing his arms so he could display his incredulity with his entire body. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Bellamy stood up, angry or upset, or maybe just overheated with emotion, he couldn’t decide. His decision was rational, and John had no business questioning his feelings. “You killed two people!”

“I was acquitted!” John hissed through clenched teeth, glancing at the open door. “And fuck you.”

Bellamy’s hands clenched without his knowledge, his whole body drawn tight and still. “Acquitted doesn’t mean you didn’t do it.”

John took a shaky breath. Bellamy could see the slight spasms of his chest and the way his eyes were bright and wet, and thought for the first time that maybe this was more rash than he thought it was. “Fine,” John said after a long moment. “This is my two weeks notice.”

Bellamy’s swallowed hard. “We require that in writing,” he said without thinking, because it was the company’s policy and because his chest felt tight and his head was fuzzy like he wasn't getting enough air.

John snatched a piece of paper off Bellamy’s desk, which Bellamy realized immediately was important, but couldn’t make himself tell John to stop.

John pulled a sharpie out of Bellamy’s pen cup and started writing over the text on the page. “There!” John said, and threw the paper at him. He started towards the door, then turned around. “And I expect a fucking GLOWING recommendation.”

It said, in John’s surprisingly neat handwriting, “I AM FUCKING QUITTING, YOU PIECE OF SHIT.’

“John,” Bellamy said, body finally responding to his brain as John reached the door.

He whipped around, face tight, and eyes still wet. “You don’t get to use my first name anymore. Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Blake?” He spat Bellamy’s last name like it was a curse.

Maybe it was. He certainly felt like shit at the moment. “No, Murphy. That’s it.” The door slammed behind him, and one of the pictures on Bellamy’s wall shifted, crooked now.

He looked at the clock. It was nine-thirty, and Bellamy couldn't remember the last time he wanted to curl up and disappear as much as he did right now.

Today was ramping up to be the worst day of his life, and it had barely started. He took a sip of his coffee, which was delicious, as always, and opened up his email. He opened a new one and typed, “Octavia, please put out a new listing for an assistant position.”

It felt even worse in writing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be more! it will have a happy ending! come poke at me on [tumblr](www.racetrackthehiggins.tumblr.com) so it happens quicker than slow


	3. In Which Bellamy Is Generally Confused And Specifically Bad At Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more more angst before the eventual happily ever after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no real warnings for this time! yay! also i changed chapter 2 so it's actually in past tense like the rest of this #goodatthis
> 
> beta'd as always by the amazing [hateboners](www.hateboners.tumblr.com)

The day only went downhill from there. At around lunch time, Bellamy had finally caffeinated and snacked himself back into some semblance or normalcy, and he had begun to regret the rashness of how he had acted. Sort of. His mind was a confusing blend of guilt, fear, and arousal.

That last one was especially embarrassing considering he’d made an ass of himself. And he was a little worried for his bodily safety. And he knew he should have listened to Clarke. He thought after almost fifteen years of friendship, he should have learned that Clarke was always right. 

He sat there, stewing in his gumbo of feelings, and tried to think back to how he felt that morning, when he had been so deliriously happy. Now he was just exhausted. And he needed a hug. Usually, that duty would fall to Octavia, but he was ignoring her for the foreseeable future.

He called Clarke.

Wells answered, still sounding as irritated and irritable as he was in person. “I’m sorry, Mr. Blake, but Ms. Griffin is busy now, can I take a message?”

Bellamy sighed, but could feel the anger surging in his veins, looking for an outlet. “Listen, Wells. I like you—” a complete lie, “—and I don’t want to yell at you, but I’m feeling sort of yelly right now, and if you don’t connect me to Clarke, I am going to be forced to yell at you twice. Once on the phone, and once when I walk the two feet to Clarke’s office and you try and stop me again, okay? Today is so not the day to try me.”

Wells swallowed so hard that Bellamy could hear it over the phone and immediate felt like apologizing. Just because he was an idiot, didn’t mean he had to take it out on Wells. “Transferring you now, sir.”

“Thank you, Wells. And I’m sor—” Their office’s hold music really was atrocious. He should complain about it. Yes, he should hang up the phone, call the IT people and complain about the hold music because that was way more important than—

“Clarke Griffin,” Clarke answered, in the vaguely lilting way she answered the phone, which was completely at odds with the way she spoke.

“It’s me,” he said, and waited for her to reply. She didn’t, which made him honestly think for a second that perhaps he was dreaming all of this, and what a relief it would be to wake up and not have this be his reality. “Me being Bellamy. Your friend Bellamy.”

The silence crackled over the phone. He wondered for a moment if they had been disconnected, or if Wells had a recording or Clarke saying her name somewhere, and this was all an elaborate trick to get Bellamy to apologize. Then she spoke. 

“I’m hanging up,” she said definitively. 

“Wait, please!” He could tell she had hesitated, because he could still hear her breathing. Sometimes he thought his whole life would have been easier if he had just fallen in love with Clarke. “I fucked up. I fucked up a whole lot.”

Clarke sighed. “I am aware. Octavia came to talk to me. Murphy, too.”

“He did?” Bellamy was surprised by that. Usually Murphy hovered at his desk for the whole day. Going all the way around the corner to Clarke was virtually unheard of.

“You haven’t opened your door since 9:35. He wasn’t wrong in assuming you’d holed up there and weren’t going to ask for him.”

Which was a fair point, he supposed, but… “He quit, Clarke. He quit on me.”

Clarke laughed, which Bellamy thought was particularly unsympathetic. “From what I hear, you cornered him! What did you expect? He’s reactive, and you know that.”

He did. Murphy was like hydrazine, amped and waiting for any provocation to blow. “I’m too tired for this shit,” he muttered, wondering if he kept drinking coffee, the quickly forming hole in his stomach would kill him before he had to deal with this shit.

Clarke made a little sympathetic noise in his ear, which was better than he had gotten up to that point, so he took it. “You wanna get lunch? I’m just about done with my work for the morning.”

There was no sign of Murphy at his desk when Bellamy snuck out of his office, but there was a can of coke sitting there, carbonation faintly popping against the metal sides, and Murphy never let a soda go flat. Which meant he was hiding from Bellamy. Which was…great.

He could see people’s eyes on him as he walked to Clarke’s office, and he felt the most shame he had experienced since his last literal walk of shame in undergrad. 

Clarke was waiting at Well’s desk, which saved him from either silently walking by Wells, or trying to apologize. She walked him quickly out of the office and then to his favorite Thai restaurant.

“You can pay,” she told him once they sat, and he figured he probably deserved that. “How comfortable are you with the staff-merging talking points, because I can get better at them this afternoon, but if you’re more comfortable you can have that. I think we should balance it more, it shouldn’t be so much me talking, agreed?”

Bellamy loved her in that moment, and promptly lost himself in work-chat.

When he returned from lunch, feeling a little more settled, Murphy was still gone. On Bellamy’s desk was a stack of papers that he realized he'd asked Murphy to photocopy last night. On the top of the stack was a post-it that said, “For Mr. Blake” and the post-it next to it that said, “Mr. Blake—taking a late lunch. –Murphy.”

And there went Bellamy’s feelings of equilibrium. The biggest issue he was having, he realized, was that he cared about Murphy ever bit as much as he had last night, and early that morning, only now those feelings were submerged in fear and guilt and regret.

And paralyzing fear. Murphy was a killer. Probably. He had been alone with Murphy in his apartment—vulnerable. Which shouldn’t be turning him on, and yet.

As a rule, Bellamy Blake had terrible taste in men. Although Murphy was the only one he had been interested in with a murder charge on his record—acquitted or no—it was par for the course as far as his romances went.

He should become a monk. Devote himself to never dating again and maybe sometimes flirt with the other brothers. It couldn’t be that bad. He had watched Vikings, after all, and there was no way Athelstan was straight, and he had done all right in a monastery.

Murphy returned after his late lunch in the most appallingly conservative clothing that Bellamy had ever seen him in. His shirt was fitted, but not fit to bust, cuffs unrolled and buttoned, tie actually tied at his throat, and slacks were baggy in the way they usually were, not the skin tight variety that Murphy usually insisted on. He looked like he was dressed for a funeral.

And his hair, his ridiculously soft, Bellamy-could-barely-keep-himself-from-touching-it hair, was gelled back aggressively. The only thing he could have done to distance himself even more from Bellamy, would have been wearing a ski mask. Or possibly just not coming back to work at all.

He managed to mostly avoid Bellamy for the rest of the day, which only made Bellamy feel worse. Murphy was like a ghost, disappearing every time Bellamy even entertained the suggestion of opening his door. Not only was Murphy trying to drag him to insanity, he was cheating at it, because clearly he was psychic.

So it was no small surprise when Murphy interrupted his four-thirty pre-presentation freak out.

He shoved the door open, and stood there, with so much anger and thinly veiled disgust that Bellamy felt nauseous again and wondered what he had done with the pepto.

“Mr. Blake? I was wondering if I could leave early?” Murphy had schooled his face into something more resembling neutral, if scathing and blank could be considered neutral.

Bellamy frowned. “What about the presentation?”

Murphy laughed, harsh and cold and entirely unlike Murphy had ever been with him. “What help have I ever been in a presentation?”

Which was a valid point. Murphy would sit in the back corner in a swivel chair, pretending to take notes and mostly just making faces at Bellamy and barely containing his laughter. It was anything but useful, but it was comforting, and familiar and expected. Nothing made him happier than reading through the notes the next day, punctuated by sarcastic comments and scribbled drawings of trees and the board and smiley faces denoting how bored he was.

It was how they did it.

Bellamy shook his head, and tried to speak as professionally as he could. “No, we need you there to take notes.”

Murphy shifted uncomfortably. “I talked to Wells. He said he’d be willing to take over tonight and I’ve finished everything for the day.” He dropped his gaze towards the floor and crossed his arms over his chest. “So can I go?”

He didn’t have a single professional reason why Murphy couldn’t go home, so he nodded, feeling remarkably out of his depth in his own office. “If Wells has got it then I see no reason why you can’t leave early.” Murphy nodded sharply and turned around to leave again, but Bellamy’s heart lurched and he almost yelled, “Murphy!”

Murphy started, whipping around, and looking at him expectantly.

Bellamy was—and he was sure Octavia would claim this was the first time in his entire life—at a loss for words. “I,” he said, and couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Is there anything else, Mr. Blake?” Murphy said slowly, over-enunciating exaggeratedly.

“Murphy, can we talk? I—this morning—I didn’t mean—”

“Is there anything else, Mr. Blake?” Murphy said again.

There were emphatically many things else, but if Murphy didn’t want to give him the chance to speak, then he could, at the very least, respect his wishes. He was confused and very possibly an idiot, and a tiny but honestly afraid to be in his presence. “No, Murphy, that’s all.”

Murphy retreated like a waiter at an expensive restaurant, the kind who Bellamy was sure would spit in his dinner.

The presentation went better than expected, with the exception of his nerves, which were enormously more frayed than he had expected they would be.

Wells had sat professionally at the back, blank faced, and had taken what Bellamy was certain were perfectly professional notes.

Bellamy could barely concentrate throughout the entire meeting. He felt fluttery, like he needed to be tethered or he would float away and disappear. He kept rubbing his hands along his thighs, and he was sure he looked like an anxious wreck, but the actual content of their presentation was apparently better than his nerves were, because it was over almost as soon as it started.

Kane came up to him after and shook his hand like they were friendlier than they were.

“That powerpoint was a huge improvement on previous ones. I assume your MIA assistant had something to do with the improvement.”

Bellamy swallowed and tried to make himself sound like a person whose nervous system was functioning properly. “Yeah, he was a great help in preparing for the presentation.”

Kane smiled broadly, and put a too friendly hand on his shoulder. Most days it bothered him, but Bellamy was so out of sorts today that the overly father-y contact made him feel sort of embarrassingly comfortable. “Good to hear! I take it Murphy might be a keeper?”

The room was suddenly so silent and so focused on him that Bellamy was certain he was going to look down and not be wearing any pants. He decided not to check. “Um, actually,” he sighed, glancing at Clarke who wouldn’t meet his gaze. “He gave notice today.”

Kane’s hand gripped a little tighter on his shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that, Bellamy.”

He knew he had gone through too many assistants (to Clarke’s one) for it not to be of interest, but still, he pretended not to notice Jaha slipping Abby a ten.

Jaha gave him a look of mild disapproval, which was so par for the course with him that Bellamy barely noticed, and stood there as if his feet had been planted to the beige carpeting until everyone had left the room but Wells.

Wells walked over to him and stared at him, until Bellamy reluctantly met his gaze. “Look,” Wells said after a moment, steeling himself. “I don’t like you,” understatement, “and I don’t like Murphy,” huge understatement, “but you hurt him and yourself, and that hurt Clarke. And Clarke—” he smiled, wistfully, and a little sadly, and Bellamy imagined Wells also had moments knowing how much easier everything would have been if he had fallen in love with Clarke. “Clarke I do like. So fix it.”

Bellamy figured he had broken all of his personal rules by now, what was one more? “How?” he asked Wells, and was embarrassed at how lost he sounded. “What is the thing that I am supposed to do to fix this?”

Wells glared at him in a pitch perfect imitation of his father. “Figure out what you’re feeling and talk to him. Two steps. Again, in case you weren’t paying attention: step 1) work out whatever emotional crisis prompted this. Step 2) go and fucking talk to him.”

Which, yeah, Bellamy had totally already figured that out, in no way at all. “Wells, I…” He figured this would be a bad time for, “I really hate you and I think you’re super pretentious and don’t know what anyone sees in you, but thanks I guess?” so instead, he took a deep breath and said, “thank you.”

Wells shook his head, already starting his retreat. “I did it for Clarke.”

And so Bellamy could 100% blame Wells for the fact that he was standing outside his car in front of Murphy’s apartment with no idea if he should go in, or if he should stand by his car to deter people from stripping it—this was a terrible neighborhood, how had he felt fine just parking his car there that morning—and he realized a little hysterically that he hadn’t really slept in verging on forty hours.

He was beginning to think maybe he should just Say Anything this situation and whip out his ipod speakers, although he did think that that symbol was somehow lacking in 21st century technology. He supposed he could buy a boombox, talking to Murphy was almost certainly worth the price, but then he’d have to go and come back and he would absolutely lose his nerve by then, besides he was hardly John Cusak and—

Murphy opened the door to his apartment complex barefoot, in sweats slung low about the hips and a white tank top, holding an unopened bottle of tequila in his hand. “What are you doing here?” he asked after a long moment of just staring at Bellamy miserably.

“I came to try and talk to you. What are you doing with that?” Bellamy asked, because he got talky when he was nervous, and because he couldn’t imagine being upset with a closed bottle of liquor.

Murphy scoffed, incredulous laughter following immediately. “Shit, you don’t know me at all do you?” He ran a hand through his hair, and then across his lips. “Since that—since—” he exhaled angrily through his nose and shook his head at Bellamy. “I don’t drink,” he said, and slammed the door.

Collapsing back into his car, Bellamy resolved himself to a long night of Wikipedia articles and online newspapers back issues. He had clearly misjudged something and if Murphy wouldn’t tell him, well, the internet was always a friend when he was in need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm going to try to get an update in next week but i have work to do and i really need to finish my screenplay for a competition so it might take a little longer again, please be patient <3
> 
> come talk to me on [tumblr](www.racetrackthehiggins.tumblr.com)


	4. In Which Bellamy Gets Drunk and Solves Some Of His Problems

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this chapter includes Murphy's backstory, which has some super triggering although not AT ALL detailed experiences. Most of these things are mentioned in dialogue, but are not super expanded upon.
> 
> WARNINGS: drugging, physical assault, murder (duh), prison, psychiatric hospitals, (also Bellamy drinks a lot a lot)
> 
> IF THIS SOUNDS LIKE SOMETHING YOU WANNA SKIP, THE SECTION BEGINS AFTER "Bellamy realized with the sick sort of watching-a-car-crash-turn-into-a-bonfire fascination that Murphy was going to tell him what happened, and also there was no way he was going to move even if he wanted to. "
> 
> AND IT'S SAFE AGAIN STARTING WITH "And then Bellamy laughed."
> 
> beta'd by hateboners on tumblr i can't do links right now i'm fucking exhausted from this chapter my god

The internet, surprisingly, did not fail Bellamy. He assumed that it would, based on his current luck with people and situations, which was none. He had less luck than he had gotten sleep lately. But the internet, his perpetual friend, continued to aid him in his times of need.

He had gotten home, stripped off his suit, and chugged a beer. Changing into his sweatpants, he considered eating, opted to drink another beer, and collapsed onto his sofa with his computer, the nightly news playing low in the background.

He decided to take the edge off before he began his super intensive googling, and had gotten as far as opening some low-quality free porn and reaching into his pants, when he remembered that hurt, venomous look on Murphy’s face, and was instantly the limpest he had ever been in his life.

As limp as he assumed most monks were.

He put his google-fu to the test. It turned out, there were a lot of John Murphy’s who had made the news. CEO’s, a couple of vets, a lawyer. His Murphy hadn’t made the first three pages.

He was tempted to type, “John Murphy Murderer,” but that felt a little on the nose. It made him queasy, like a teenager looking up porn on a library computer, vulnerable and flaunting it.

Bellamy decided on a third beer. After chugging it and a brief reconnaissance mission to his pantry, he collapsed back onto the sofa again, this time nicely buzzed, and with a bag of potato chips that were barely not stale.

He decided, “John Murphy trial,” would make him a little bit less of a bad person, and after the last couple of days, he would take every little bit he could get.

There were a couple hundred results, including a few photos of Murphy; Murphy with long greasy hair in an orange jump suit, Murphy in handcuffs, Murphy in an ill-fitting suit walking down the steps of a court house, a close up of Murphy sneering and glassy eyed. 

Bellamy decided to avoid gossip news to begin with, and opened several reputable news sources and skimmed. The first one reflected his own personal anger, emphasizing, John Murphy and Murder and Morals. The second one, less so, and by the time he had read his way through several of them, he had finished off his six-pack.

An older article, then, only peripherally associated with the others; “Local College Student in Coma After Incident At Frat Party,” before his miraculous recovery, and his less miraculous murders.

Reality, he reminded himself, had shades of grey, and the easiest way to deal with people was to function with his head anywhere outside of his own ass. He nursed his final beer, not wanting to turn to hard liquor, but suspecting it was in his very near future.

He decided his near future should be now, and pulled himself off of the couch, and forced himself to walk the twenty feet to the kitchen. His liquor cabinet was just above his refrigerator, and filled mostly with expensive wine (from Clarke), really cheap tequila (from Octavia), and what ever middle shelf vodka he had purchased for himself last Christmas, to make him feel a little less pathetic about spending it alone.

He had forgotten about the ridiculously expensive bottle of whiskey his employees had gotten him for the holidays until he was faced with it. It still had the note attached in his assistant’s surprisingly neat print: “don’t drink it all in one go, dumbass –Murphy.”

He grabbed a bottle of Octavia’s cheap tequila, and the whiskey. He fell asleep on the couch, filling his belly with the tequila and holding the whiskey to his chest like a teddy bear, pretending all of this wouldn’t end with a hell of a hangover the next day.

Bellamy wondered, as his eyes slid shut, if Murphy had caved and started drinking, too.

Bellamy woke up on his couch, barely dressed and smelling like alcohol, which would have been a lot less embarrassing if Clarke hadn’t been standing over him, with her arms crossed, looking pissed. He regretted, not for the first time, giving her his spare key.

“It’s 12:30,” she told him.

“I’m calling in sick,” Bellamy replied, and tried to look dignified.

“Halfway through the day?” she said incredulously. “And what about the fundraiser tonight?”

He felt around on the couch for his cell phone that should have woken him up at six, regardless of where he slept. “You can fundraise without me. I am barely useful at fundraisers, and also I might throw up.” He continued groping for his phone, but it was not in any of his pockets.

Clarke sighed, uncrossing her arms and pointing to his phone on the coffee table. “Your phone is dead. I tried calling you five times.”

“I’m sorry, Clarke,” Bellamy said, and tried to feel like he wasn’t about to cry.

She shook her head and flung herself onto the couch beside him. “You wanna talk about it?” She lifted her arm and waited for him to flop into her, which he did. 

“No,” he said stubbornly, letting her play with his hair. It was nice to have someone else there, even though he would have rathered no audience to his sadness. “How’s the office?”

“Well,” Clarke said, clearly considering what information to give him and what to not. “I had Murphy cancel all of your meetings, which was fine, everyone was able to reschedule for Monday or Tuesday. Octavia is upset at you because she’s worried, and you didn’t call her. Murphy’s worried,” she paused, looking down at his face in time to see him frown before continuing, “but he won’t say anything. My mother offered to make you soup, but honestly her soup is almost as bad as being sick so I told her you’d be fine.”

She studied him for a long moment. “You are going to be fine, right?”

Bellamy nodded absently, and then stopped when he remembered what nodding usually conveys. “I don’t know if I can fix this.” And that was truly the scariest part for Bellamy. He liked things in his control, things that followed rules and regulations. In his college years, he had created the motto for his frat, “whatever the hell we want,” and it had done him well enough until he realized that a DUI, having his stomach pumped, two pregnancy scares and a couple of (thankfully) curable STI’s wasn’t exactly well enough.

Since then, he prized schedules and structures, things that could be deconstructed and reconstructed without harm, but that imposed order on the chaos that he unconsciously lived.

Clarke stroked his hair obligingly and said, “I believe you can do anything you really want to, Bellamy. If you want to fix this, you will find a way.”

Bellamy was pretty sure Clarke was an angel, or a saint. Either way, there should be some holiday dedicated to her. Making up a holiday was easy enough, but he assumed the struggle would be in getting other people to celebrate. Or, at least people who hadn’t met her.

He was pretty sure everyone who had met her would understand the necessity for a Clarke-themed holiday.

He hid in her arms until the end of her lunch break.

“I have to go now,” she told him, even though he already knew. “I’ll handle the fundraiser tonight, you sober up and get your shit together. You can fix this.” She kissed his cheek and let herself out, locking the door behind her.

Bellamy stood up and stretched, resolving to eat something that wasn’t made entirely of preservatives. He could handle this. He was a grown-ass adult, and it wasn’t like this was the first mistake he had ever made.

He made eggs. Eggs were easy, easy to fix if you messed them up (Just Add Cheese! his inner advertisement told him), easy to digest, and best of all, easy to make while distracted.

After soiling his shirt, he remembered that eggs were not quite as easy to eat while distracted.

He would have to talk to Murphy again. He would have to purposefully approach Murphy and apologize and admit to looking him up and generally other stalker-ish behavior and then apologize and smile and hope that it would be enough.

Opening his laptop again, Bellamy googled the location of operational monasteries. Just to be sure.

He decided that imposing some order on the chaos that was his bachelor pad might help his nerves, and he had just gotten through stacking the dishes neatly, though still dirty in the sink, and was debating whether or not he knew if there was a reason to separate his laundry into whites and colored items considering he didn’t own bleach, when there was a knock at the door.

Bellamy paused, a handful of grey shirts clenched in his fist, as he tried to decide if grey went with whites or colors. It clearly wasn’t Clarke, because she had never had any compunction busting in to his house whenever it suited her, and it wasn’t Octavia because she banged on the door incessantly until he answered.

Bellamy walked to the door cautiously, like it might burst open, and Octavia might be on the other side, luring him into a false sense of security. Or possibly a tiger.

Instead, as he gazed through his peephole, he saw Murphy, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, and wiping his mouth with his a forearm, a tic that Bellamy had absolutely not watched him do many times from his office. Absolutely not.

He opened the door and debated taking a step back, in case Murphy wanted to punch him. Then he decided against stepping back, because he probably deserved the punch if it was coming. They maintained awkward eye contact, neither one of them moving for what Bellamy assumed had to be way too long.

“I got your address from Octavia,” Murphy said after a moment, like he honestly thought Bellamy’s biggest concern was how Murphy knew where he lived. “I thought I’d bring you some work stuff to look at over the weekend, if you were feeling better. And to see. If you were.” He handed Bellamy a stack of files in a manila envelope, that Bellamy suspected said Mr. Blake and not Bellamy, so he didn’t check. “Feeling better, I mean.”

Bellamy nodded, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Shit, he hadn’t looked at a mirror since the night before. At least sweatpants were almost clothing. “Yeah. I’m…” he trailed off, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah. Wanna come in?”

He fully expected Murphy to say no, and so was visibly shocked when Murphy said, “yeah, okay.”

He lead Murphy into his den, throwing his haphazard laundry piles from the couch to the floor. Murphy sat down on the couch, limbs tucked close into his sides, like he was trying to make himself smaller. He pointed at the almost empty bottle of tequila, and the still unopened bottle of whiskey. “You have a fun night?” he asked, smirking.

“I got drunk and looked you up on the internet,” Bellamy replied bluntly, and tried to ignore the way Murphy winced.

“Did you find anything interesting?”

“Depends on what you mean by interesting.” Bellamy decided now was the perfect time to clear the chip crumbs off the table, and it maybe it was also the perfect time to do his laundry or grocery shopping or move to France. “Listen,” he said, turning away so he wouldn’t have to look at Murphy, even as he sat down next to him on the couch. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. And I overstepped my bounds, both as your employer, and as someone who considered you a friend. If you wanted to confer with an attorney, I’d give you the name of mine, he’s very good, and I’d pay of course—”

Murphy laughed. “Did you just offer to pay for me to sue you?”

Well, Bellamy thought, and turned back to face Murphy, who had silently moved much closer to him. Either Murphy was a ninja or he was more distracted than he thought he was. “Well,” he said.

Murphy shook his head. “I don’t want that.” He hesitated, then reached out and put a hand in Bellamy’s mess of slept-on curls. “Fuck, you’re really sorry, aren’t you?” he didn’t wait for a reply. He dropped his hand and his body released all of his tension. He looked at Bellamy like he was looking through him. “So I am forgiven, then? Do my transgressions disappear, now?”

No, he thought, but do mine? Bellamy realized with the sick sort of watching-a-car-crash-turn-into-a-bonfire fascination that Murphy was going to tell him what happened, and also there was no way he was going to move even if he wanted to. 

“I thought they were my friends, you know? I mean, I was an asshole to them, but I’m an asshole to everyone. And they weren’t really my friends, I guess, but it was college, and I didn’t really have anyone else. I guess a frat can’t really be friends with normal people.” He smiled, self-deprecating and shallow. “I still don’t know what they thought I did. Something unforgivable, I guess. They had this party, this big ass kegger, and they kept handing me cups and I took them, because,” he shrugged, helplessly. “I didn’t know they were drugged. I didn’t expect that of them. They were my friends. Only, I guess not.”

He paused for a long moment, so Bellamy’s mouth decided to act without his permission and just start speaking. “The papers said you had been assaulted. And were in a coma.” He reached out cautiously, placing his hand on Murphy’s thigh. He half expected Murphy to shy away, but Murphy moved slightly closer to him instead.

Murphy nodded. “Yeah, everything was spinning and they kicked the shit outta me. And then I woke up, 12 days later, and two of those fuckers who I thought were my friends were just there in front of me. Visiting apparently. They told the nurse they were my friends. Can you believe that? That they have the fucking balls to say that? So when I woke up they were just there. And I didn’t know I had been in a coma. I didn’t know shit, but I was terrified and I panicked. I thought they were going to kill me. I did.” 

Murphy’s eyes were glassy wet, like doll eyes Bellamy thought. He sniffled obviously, and tried to discreetly wipe his face. 

“I just went crazy. I don’t even know how I—and I would have gone to jail forever, but one of them survived long enough to give a statement to the police, and spent the whole time talking about me, what they had done to me, how sorry he was. I didn’t even know half of that shit until they were reading it in court.” Murphy stopped and shook his head, clearing the image or disagreeing with the memory.

Shake to erase. Like an etch-a-sketch.

The sadness was replaced quick as a blink with anger, and Murphy’s face was transformed by a furious fervor. “Do you know what those fuckers cost me?” Murphy demanded. “Do you?!”

Bellamy swallowed hard. “The, ah—the paper said you were in a coma for two weeks.”

Murphy nodded, lips pressed into a tight line. “Yeah. Two weeks in a coma. And then a month in jail until Mbege could raise enough for my bail. A trial so long I honestly can’t remember how long it took, and then six months mandatory stay in a psychiatric hospital so I could recover, or so they could make sure I wasn’t a secret serial killer. They made me feel bad about what I did, but I don’t. Not really. I did what I had to do because I was fucking terrified and those fuckers destroyed my life.

“By the time I was released, Mbege had died and no one—fuck, no one had even told me in the hospital. The school wouldn’t take me back, so I couldn’t finish my degree. My friends wouldn’t talk to me, I couldn’t get a job. I had to finish school online, and I wouldn’t even have a job right now if it weren’t for Raven Reyes, who hated me so much during college.” Murphy rubbed viciously at his eyes and Bellamy realized he was crying, too. “She reported on me, you know. For the school paper. She was there every second of the trial, taking notes, never looking at me.”

Murphy sniffled indignantly, which would have been cute if the situation had been anything different from what it was. “It was more than two weeks. It was my entire fucking life. And I finally thought things were going well: I had a great job and great boss, and I got along with some of the people, and I had a date. But no, this is exactly what my piss-poor excuse for a life is like: nobody likes me, I don’t have a job, and Raven Reyes is there. At least no one else is dead.” 

And then Bellamy laughed. He laughed uncontrollably, and was sure he had fucked up until Murphy started laughing too, high pitched and hysteric. “Jesus, that’s terrible.”

Murphy nodded, still laughing, even though he was clearly crying too. He placed his hand tentatively over Bellamy’s. “Yeah, my life is awful.”

“So you don’t drink,” Bellamy said after a moment.

“No.”

“Can I get you a water?” Bellamy asked, and Murphy laughed again, more controlled. They sat there in oddly companionable silence and Bellamy thought about his life, and Murphy’s life, and how fucking stupid he was. “I don’t want you to quit,” he said, because it was the most innocuous thing he could say.

“Okay,” Murphy replied.

“I mean it,” Bellamy continued. “If you don’t want to work with me because I’m a raging asshole, that’s okay, we can move you around in the company, but you’re smart and a good worker and it would be a real detriment to the company to lose you, so don’t quit.”

Murphy rolled his eyes. “I said okay.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Murphy wiped his eyes again and sniffled. “Okay. So are we okay?”

Bellamy nodded. “Yeah. And if—” but he couldn’t finish, because Murphy had leaned across the couch and pressed his lips against Bellamy’s. It was nothing like the passionate—though sleepy—seduction of the other morning.

Murphy’s lips were insistent, prying, like he was having a whole conversation silently with Bellamy in a language Bellamy was almost certain he didn’t know. His face was slightly wet which immediately made Bellamy feel like he was taking advantage, and he thought maybe he should pull away—but that might give Murphy the wrong impression. 

“Stop thinking and kiss me,” Murphy murmured and Bellamy shivered.

If this continued, at some point Bellamy was going to have to become adjusted to Murphy’s sex voice. He wasn’t sure if that adjustment period would kill him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into Murphy’s lips, and repeated it when he realized he wasn’t apologizing for halting the kiss. “I’m sorry.”

“I know, Bellamy. I know.” Murphy kissed him again, pushing him back onto the couch, and Bellamy let himself be moved and molded and kissed (and possibly forgiven).

He hoped that what he had to give would be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god if you don't hate me come talk to me i'm racetrackthehiggins on tumblr and wayyyy to lazy to put a link in this chapter


	5. In Which There Are BlowJobs and Breakfast Foods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has sex in it so if that's not your thing, be warned! and by sex, I mean a mediocre blowjob scene. 
> 
> beta'd by the incredible [hateboners](http://www.hateboners.tumblr.com) whose first question was if I had a dick, would I talk to it out loud.
> 
> this is the last chapter of the main story! there are going to be other stories in this universe, and if you have requests, feel free to let me know! I'm sorry I kept you all waiting.

Bellamy woke up to the scent of pancakes which was surprising, first, because Bellamy’s cooking abilities extended only to toast (in that sometimes he ate blackened bread and called it breakfast), and second, because the last time someone had made him pancakes, it was his first day of high school. Considering his mother had been dead since right around then, either he was dreaming or someone had broken into his house to make him pancakes. Or…

“John?”

“Wrecking your kitchen!” Murphy called back, which was fair, considering.

Bellamy sat up, stretched, sore from sleeping on the couch for a second night in a row. Apparently. He had no memory of falling asleep, just sitting on the couch with Murphy, ordering Thai food and watching far too many hours of Toddlers And Tiaras, and embarrassing amounts of cuddling. And kissing, his crotch reminded him unhelpfully. Lots of kissing.

 

Bellamy put a hopefully calming hand on his dick and reminded it to behave, not that he had a great track record when it came to brain-dick interactions. He stood up and walked to the kitchen.

His dick immediately forgot the conversation they had just had and twitched at the sight of Murphy, who had the back half of his hair pulled back into a tiny bun, near drowning in one of Bellamy’s white t-shirts, flipping a pancake and humming absently.

He glanced down at his traitorous dick, but to be fair, his brain reasoned, pretty much all of him was enjoying the sight.

Murphy glanced at him and smiled. “Well someone’s awake,” he said, turning back to his pancakes.

“Hmm?” Bellamy replied, because mornings were not really his forte.

“Oh, nothing.” Murphy smirked, barely containing his laughter. “I was talking to your dick, but it’s nice to see you too.”

Bellamy grumbled and walked over to his coffee pot. He was too asleep for this conversation. 

“Oh, hey. Important question,” Murphy asked, beginning to pile the pancakes on a plate that was decorated with robots. Bellamy frowned, both at the question and at the plate. Where had that come from? College, surely, but where had it been hiding. Unless Murphy brought it, which begged a whole bunch of different questions.

“Hmm?” Bellamy replied again.

“Why the fuck do you have three cartons of eggs but no milk? Who eats that many eggs? And who the fuck drinks almond milk anyway?” Murphy offered the pancake plate up in the air and Bellamy gestured vaguely at his virtually unused kitchen table, rummaging for clean plates and silverware.

“Octavia,” he muttered, successfully locating clean dishes. “Went through a vegan phase. Tried to be supportive.”

Murphy wrinkled his nose in obvious disgust, which Bellamy thought was more adorable than it should be. “Gross.”

“Entirely.”

Murphy grinned, reaching for the cup of coffee that Bellamy had poured himself. Bellamy rolled his eyes and handed the cup to Murphy, pouring himself another one. This was all very strange. Bellamy was almost certain he hadn’t had a Morning After Breakfast without having first had a really shameful amount of sex, which hadn’t happened. At all. By any definition of the word.

“Eat your pancakes before they get cold, dipshit.”

Bellamy rolled his eyes, but gathered the syrup from the fridge and sat across from Murphy at the table and ate his pancakes, which were surprisingly good, despite the lack of milk and his doubts at Murphy’s ability to make food. Neither of them spoke while they ate, which was just as well because Bellamy didn’t know what to say.

Last night had been an excellent night, but now it was morning, which meant that Murphy was going to leave, right? It wasn’t like he would just stay forever. That was crazy. Right? Bellamy shook his head. 

He opened his mouth, hoping that his brain would supply words to go there, but luckily he was saved by his phone ringing. Or rather, blaring the Imperial March, which meant—

Murphy raised an eyebrow. “Need to get that?”

Bellamy nodded. “Yeah, it’s Octavia.” He stood up and walked towards where he had left his phone by the couch. “If you wanna put the dishes in the sink, I’ll get to them later.”

Murphy nodded absently, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “Yeah, of course.”

Bellamy jogged to catch the call before it hung up and answering, walked towards his bedroom, where maybe Murphy wouldn’t be able to hear whatever new and terrible thing Octavia had to say to him.

“Sup?”

“You owe me,” she said over the phone, sounding smug and irritated. “But don’t thank me yet.”

“Good morning, Octavia, how are you? I’m fine, thank you for asking.” Bellamy hated talking to Octavia first thing in the morning. She was always too awake and too harsh and too everything. It gave him a headache.

“I deleted the job posting, Clarke and I filed a note in a your file with HR saying you worked this out, and from now on I’ll be doing his performance reviews, you just need to sign the paper work, and they you two can go to pound town or whatever.”

Bellamy found himself smiling, despite how much Octavia was in the morning, and how much more coffee he needed to feel like a person. “Wow, O, that’s incredible, thank—”

“What did I say?”

Bellamy wanted to feel his stomach drop, but he was still so excited, vibrating with anticipation and stupid happiness. “What else?”

“You have to go to a sexual harassment seminar. And it’s being run Major Byrne.”

Bellamy groaned. “Seriously? O, you are the absolute worst.”

“You’re welcome and remember to use a cond—”

He hung up before he could hate her any more than he already did. He turned around and saw Murphy, standing uncomfortably by the front door, back in his own clothes, hair back down and a bag slung over his shoulder.

“Are you leaving?” Bellamy asked taking a few steps towards Murphy before he remember things like personal space and consent.

“I should. Right?”

“It’s Saturday,” Bellamy said, like that explained everything.

“Gold star?” Murphy hazarded. 

“We were supposed to go on a date.” 

Murphy smiled and slowly lowered his bag. Bellamy’s dick took this as a victory. “I stayed over last night. We got food in. That was a date.”

Bellamy stepped forward, beyond pleased when Murphy mirrored him. His pulse thumped, and Jesus, when had he regressed to the preteen horror of sweaty palms an constant erections “We could have another. Besides, I owe you an apology.”

Murphy chuckled. “You apologized last night, asshole. Ad nauseum.” 

Bellamy was embarrassingly hard, which was becoming something of a theme. “I could apologize again. On my knees,” he clarified, and Murphy’s eyelids fluttered beautifully.

“Oh.” The bag thumped to the ground and Murphy grinned, all sharp teeth, and Bellamy could see the outline of his cock hardening in his trousers. “Bed? Couch? Kitchen table? Front door?”

“Couch,” Bellamy affirmed, leading him to the couch and shoving him back, watching him land, mouth open, like a pin-up or a pornstar. Regardless, definitely masturbation material for the next week. Possibly month. Or the rest of his life.

He lowered himself carefully onto his knees, aware that he wasn’t as young as he used to be. He rubbed his hands up Murphy’s legs slowly. Murphy’s hands twitched, unsure, and Bellamy wanted to kiss him all over.

Murphy smirked. “And how exactly are you going to apologize with my dick in your mouth?”

Bellamy laughed, clutching at Murphy’s knees. “Hey, I’ll have you know several of my best apologies were made with dicks in my mouth.”

“Plural dicks?”

Bellamy decided to ignore him and leaned forward to nip at Murphy’s hard cock through his slacks. “Shut up, John.” He reached forward, pulled Murphy’s shirt up, revealing the pale skin of his belly, and Bellamy couldn’t resist nuzzling his stomach as he fumbled blindly for his fly.

“Yeah, shutting up. Can do.”

Bellamy finally got the zipper open and leaned down, breathing on Murphy’s dick and watching his hips gyrate. He glanced up, saw Murphy cover his eyes with his hand, the other one still twitching uselessly at his side and face already flushed. It was enough to make Bellamy want him even more.

He pulled Murphy’s cock free of his pants and boxers, and pressed his lips to the tip, just to hear the way Murphy inhales, shaky, like the ground had been pulled from under him.

Bellamy thought maybe he should pinch himself, just to make sure.

Murphy was as embarrassingly hard as Bellamy, which was a small mercy. He can’t imagine how much Murphy would tease him for coming uncontrollably while giving him a blowjob.

 

He sucked Murphy down, all the way, because he has had a lot of dicks in his mouth and he was good at everything he did, and because he never had a gag reflex, which he learned in the seventh grade when his crush dared him to deepthroat a piece of pepperoni pizza.

Deepthroating cock was way easier than a piece of pizza.

Murphy groaned as he took him down, and Bellamy gazed up at him, pleased to see the flush of pink on Murphy’s cheeks and neck, and the bright red teeth marks he was leaving on his lips, gnawing at it. His eyes were still shut tight, and his hand had traveled from over his eyes to his hair, where he was tugging it sharply.

Bellamy couldn’t wait to get his hands in that hair, anchor him in place while he kissed him. Or maybe something less pathetic and middle school. He pulled back a second, unzipping his fly as fast as he could, and shoved a hand down his own pants before taking a few rapid breaths and lunging onto Murphy’s dick again.

He sucked hard, wasting little time on technique, desperate to see Murphy come apart. Which, he thought, pulling back slightly, was maybe not the best idea. Should he be showing off, giving Murphy the blowjob of his dreams, or just get him off rough and fast so they could cuddle? Bellamy blushed, immediately embarrassed with himself, and wondered desperately how he was going to get through this relationship without drinking. 

If they were actually relationshiping.

He leaned back onto Murphy’s dick and started tugging himself more firmly. Murphy gripped his hair, too, pulling him down harder, like Murphy wasn’t already lodged in his throat. He laughed, watching Murphy squirm and pant. He moved his free hand down to Murphy’s balls, which he honestly never really knew what to do with, and settled on massaging them gently, and hoping for the best. He received a little spurt of liquid on his tongue and gave himself a mental pat on the back. 

“Jesus, this is embarrassing,” Murphy said, and Bellamy pressed his tongue firmly along the underside of Murphy’s cock, which was apparently enough, because Murphy was bucking and shaking, and orgasming down Bellamy’s throat, which was really really hot, and he tugged himself to a shameful mostly-still-wearing-pants orgasm while he sucked Murphy soft.

Pulling off with a pop, he grinned up at Murphy with a more than smug grin.

Murphy released the death grip on his hair, before realizing he had an equally strong one on Bellamy’s hair and released that, too, blushing and chuckling, breathless and glowing with a sheen of sweat and Bellamy wondered if it would be too creepy if he took a picture on his phone.

Murphy ran an affectionate hand down his cheek, which was unexpected but nice, and he leaned into it. “Do you need…” Murphy trailed off, before making the universal signal for handjob.

Bellamy pulled his hand out of his pants, coated in his cum, which was never an experience that he enjoyed. “Nah, that was…”

“Great,” Murphy finished. “Like, definitely top five blowjobs ever and I’m not even sure you were trying.”

Bellamy attempted to muster up the brain power to decide if he was offended, but then Murphy was guiding his hand to his lips and sucking his hand clean. Murphy’s tongue wrapping around his fingers was like an electric shock, which made his spent dick give a twitch like it was FrankenDick and the feel of Murphy’s mouth could resurrect it.

Down boy, he thought irritably and was unsurprised when his dick ignored him and gave another furtive twitch.

“We should do that again sometime,” Murphy said, after he had finished bathing Bellamy’s hand.

How about every day for the rest of my life, Bellamy very consciously didn’t say. “Yeah, definitely,” he said, which was equally as bad. “I mean, yes. Please. Often, maybe, even.”

Murphy rolled his eyes and slumped forward, resting his forehead against Bellamy’s. “Jesus, you are such a dork. You are the biggest dork. I have no idea what I see in you. At all.”

Bellamy grinned and leaned in to kiss him, which made the butterflies residing in his stomach go wild. He reluctantly broke the kiss and stood, stretching his knees and his back, which popped, reminding him that he was getting old. “I’m going to go brush my teeth.”

Murphy nodded. “Cool, I’ll see if I can find another season of Cupcake Wars on your computer. Same password as the office?”

Bellamy nodded. “OctaviaLifeRuiner1,” he confirmed, and ducked past the couch and to the bathroom, refraining from ruffling Murphy’s hair, or pulling him into another kiss, or proposing on the spot. They still had things to work through. They weren’t there yet.

But, Bellamy thought, as he spread his cinnamon flavored toothpaste (which Murphy had already mocked him about) onto his toothbrush, he was happy. As happy as he’d been when this all began. Maybe even happier, now that everything was out in the open. And they would be honest now, which was good. There is no such thing as too much honesty, Bellamy mentally told his reflection as he debated whether he could get his hair to unpoof without a shower.

“Hey, Bell,” Murphy called from the other room, which set the butterflies aflutter. “Why did you google active monasteries?”

Upon further reflection, Bellamy thought maybe there was such a thing as too much honesty, and decided that their relationship could be open and honest starting in and hour or two. They had the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come talk to me on [tumblr!](http://www.racetrackthehiggins.tumblr.com)  
> thank you for sticking with, this was really so much fun to write <3

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on [tumblr](racetrackthehiggins.tumblr.com)
> 
> there could be more of this? maybe?


End file.
